


Down and Down We Go

by illyria13



Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7109770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyria13/pseuds/illyria13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting go is one of the easiest things he's ever done. But easy doesn't always mean right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down and Down We Go

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Spoilers: Brief mentions of Matt, though story is set more in s2 because Lou is still alive. 
> 
> Warnings: Some cursing, mentions of suicide
> 
> AN: Yes, another Sam fic. I don't think I'm capable of writing anything else for this fandom. I've had the beginning of this story completed for a long time, but just couldn't get the ending right. I'm still not sure if I really like the one I did end up writing. This story came from a prompt on LJ for FP drabbles (though this is nowhere near being a drabble). The prompt was "let go."
> 
> I hope you like this story, even though I don't feel it's my best. What can I say? I think my plot bunnies hopped off somewhere and died.
> 
> Please let me know if any song lyrics or quotes are not labeled.
> 
> Originally posted on fanfiction.net on 10-20-2012; I am slowly bringing all of my stories over from that site.

> **"I'm going to base this moment on who I'm stuck in a room with. That's what life is-it's a series of rooms. And who we get stuck in those rooms with add up to what our lives are."**
> 
> **-"One Day, One Room" House, M. D. , season 3 episode 17**

/

> _"_ Can you see the signs?
> 
> Have we lost our minds?
> 
> Looks like we've fallen,
> 
> Feels like we've fallen.
> 
> Down and down we go,
> 
> Never felt so low,
> 
> Can't hear you calling,
> 
> Maybe we're already gone."
> 
> -Chris Daughtry, "Maybe We're Already Gone"

/

_There is never enough time in the world. No matter how much they try, people never seem to accomplish everything they want in the time given to them. They often die with tasks incomplete, with regrets and failures and an aching hole of emptiness. It's why some people believe that ghosts exist, spirits that linger here on this earthly plane, unable to move on or let go. Because even the dead feel trapped by the obligations of the living._

_The problem with time is that it is always moving forward. It never stops or slows or rewinds, only altered by the perception of the people in its sphere. It is not for a lack of trying on humanity's part, though. Time-travel, parallel worlds, alternate universes- these are the children of science fiction and yet scientists have tried to search for them all. In the deepest parts of their minds, even the most rational of creatures will think the impossible is merely a limitation of their mortality._

_Given enough time, humanity could remake the world._

_And yet for all that they've tried, in over thousands of years of existence, success has never happened. Humans are no closer to traveling through time than an ant is to ruling the world. Time remains as it has always been-immoveable, unstoppable, and as unconquerable as the sun. Humanity will never be its master._

_Because of this, the only option left to them is to do as much as possible in the short time they have to live. They love and laugh, they cry and scream; they create and they destroy, they have and they take. But it's not enough. They are never satisfied, never at rest, and never at peace with what they have accomplished._

_It is through this voracious appetite, this unending hunger for more, that humanity fails. Instead of being grateful for what they have, they go to great lengths to prolong their time on this earth. They demand more from time than what they are allowed because they think it is deserved. But what have they done to prove such a belief? How have they shown that they deserve such a gift, a gift that their fathers and their fathers before that, were not worthy of? Has there been less war, less death? Less sin committed by them all?_

_The answer is no. And yet, the arrogance of humanity demands a reward for something they have not done. It is no wonder that time has a partner with whom it works; a partner to teach humanity their place._

_Death._

_In a way, death is simple. There is no way to escape it and none are exempt from its reach. It comes when it wants and wants who it chooses. All are equally trapped in its gaze._

_In the end, death comes for all._

/

If there's one thing he really doesn't like, it's somebody shooting at his team.

It doesn't matter whether it's accidental or on purpose; the thought of a person pointing a loaded weapon at one of his team while simultaneously swinging between a volatile cocktail of emotions is something that he cannot accept. In these circumstances, every fiber of his being howls out in murderous rage, and it takes everything he has not to riddle the person with holes.

When there's an imminent threat to any member of his team, the policy is to take them out. Neutralize the threat, in SRU terms, and while some of the others are a little conflicted, Sam's pretty comfortable with that terminology. Suicide by cop, justifiable force, killing a person- all are just multiple ways of saying the same thing. But for Sam, anybody who threatens his team deserves what they get. It's a bit frightening sometimes, the darkness that rises in him when he looks at some people, but Sam cannot change who he is. And he doesn't want to; because this feeling causes him to keep his team safe, keep the people he cares about alive and breathing and whole.

Because that's why Sam does what he does, why he fights so hard even when he's exhausted beyond belief: to protect the people he loves. To protect what is his. He can claim all the altruistic reasons he wants; when it comes down to it, to the bottom line, it will always be his people that he will protect first. It's a dangerous principle to have when you're a cop, but deep down, Sam isn't a cop. At his very core, he is a soldier, through and through, and a soldier's priority is always his own.

It's why Matt's death had cut him so deep. It wasn't just the loss of his best friend; as sad and tragic as it was, loss is a part of war. What had killed a part of Sam inside had been the fact that it was him who'd fired the fatal shot. He'd taken the life of one of his own and no act can ever be redemption enough to save him. There is no penance that will give him clean hands and no prayer he could say that would be heard. There is only him and his rifle and the miles of his life stretching before him.

And then he'd come to the SRU, and he'd found himself a new team to protect. In a way, this team has come to mean even more to him than his one before. His unit in the military had been a safety net, something that had caught him on his way down to rock-bottom, but the team here had been the rope that he'd used to pull himself up. They didn't know it, but they had saved him; saved him from becoming a person he could no longer recognize in the mirror, saved him from an endless loop of memories playing in front of his eyes, and saved him from having to put a bullet in his own head in order to find some peace.

Because of this, he will do what ever he must to keep them safe.

He owes them his life and his soul, his sight and his breath, and that kind of debt can only be repaid with loyalty. And loyalty is a concept he is very familiar with, a concept engrained into his very bones; less of a burden and more of a sacrifice he can make gladly.

But more than that, more than the loyalty and debt that he owes them, Sam protects them because deep down, they are _his_. It is his right and his duty and his vow, and there is nothing he would not do and no amount he would not pay to keep them intact. He may have failed his sister, he may have failed Matt, but these people-these people he will not. He _can_ not. Because sometimes they're the only thing that keeps him going; to lose them now, to lose his reason for being, is unthinkable.

So the second he sees the subject shift his aim from his hostage to Greg, he doesn't hesitate, hitting the subject dead center with a single shot.

Through the smoke rising from the barrel of his rifle, he sees his team move forward, securing the body and helping the hostage to his feet. And for a moment, everything is perfect. There will be questions and a debriefing and a counseling session with Dr. Luria, but he doesn't care. He can handle it, because his team is alright. His team is safe.

But the moment passes and suddenly, everything shifts.

The subject had led them on a merry chase down an alley, across a street, and through two different buildings, and it was in the last of these that they had ended up. Only, this building had been under construction, the result of which had left numerous faults in structural integrity. They'd had to be careful picking their way through, testing the few stairs and floors for support, climbing on construction swings and different scaffolds, all while keeping a careful eye on the object of their hunt.

The subject had stopped on a half-finished floor several stories from the ground, his position precarious and made even more so by his lack of restraint in moving. The team spreads out around him, maintaining enough distance as to not distract and all of their focus on the two figures of hostage and subject.

Sam had been given the order to find a perch to set up the sniper shot and he had, on a set of stairs looking down on the subject and his hostage. Through the scope of his rifle, he could see his team spread out in various positions, and he mentally checked off each one as he focused on them briefly.

It's his own private ritual, checking on them; securing their locations and squaring away potential threats to their positions in a little corner of his mind. It doesn't distract from the job, it's actually a part of it, because knowing where they all are, knowing that they are safe, is the only way he can focus on his target.

Before Matt…he'd never had to consider the dangers his team faced from him. And after Matt…those dangers were all he could think about.

Through the scope, he watches as Greg negotiates, attempting to reach the desperate man but even from his distance, Sam can see that the words are falling on deaf ears. The subject grows increasingly agitated, the gun in his hand switching targets from the hostage to himself to the air, and Sam readies himself as Ed softly gives him permission to pull the trigger.

_Keep an eye on that gun, Braddock. If you have the solution, and his target changes, take the shot._

And it does.

So he fires a shot and saves a life by taking one. He is prepared for everything that will come after that, every possible outcome, except for what happens next.

A soft moan of metal catches his attention, and the floor beneath his feet shudders. It is followed by another, louder this time and echoing in his ears, and accompanied by an even harder shake as the entire staircase beneath him protests. He hears a series of whines as metal and steel grind against each other and before he can move or even say a word, the ground beneath him folds. His rifle slips from his hands as the railing in front of him disappears; unbalanced, Sam feels himself fall forward into empty space as metal rains down with him.

And then he is in freefall, the air whistling in his ears, and the world is tilted around him as he twists in a deadly dance in empty space. He is falling, and he is weightless, rocked by the force of gravity against skin and helpless under the onslaught. He is falling, and he can feel his breath catch in his chest as he sees the ground below him getting closer and closer, and he's never been afraid to die but the sight is terrifying. He is falling, and briefly, he feels angry, because he knows that this is it; there is no back-up plan, no way to save him, and now his team is going to be left without him to protect them.

He is falling and he is about to die and now all he feels is calm acceptance because he'd always known that his death would come at the end of a fall, even if this hadn't been exactly what he'd pictured.

It takes less than 10 seconds to fall and in that time, he sees his death play out numerous times in his head.

And then he is abruptly jerked to a halt as something catches hold of him by the hand. His momentum carries him forward and he slams into some steel beams, his chest aching from the impact and his breath knocked out of him. His shoulder is screaming too and briefly he wonders if it's dislocated before the reality of his situation catches up to him.

He's no longer falling.

He glances up to see what had stopped his descent and sees his hand grasped tightly within two others; his eyes follow the arms upwards and lands on exactly what had caught him. It's less of a 'what' and more of a 'who' and the sight sends a bolt of shock through him.

Spike is laying chest-down on the scaffolding above him, his arms dangling over the edge the only thing keeping Sam from falling. There is a determined yet desperate look on Spike's face that Sam has never seen on his teammate before and it strikes something inside of him as the realization hits.

Spike had saved him. Not only had he saved him, he'd put himself at risk by his maneuver, leaping forward to catch a 180-lb person in freefall. It was a daring move, reckless and hasty and so very unlike Spike that it takes Sam a moment to truly accept what his mind knew to be true. But adapting to circumstances is instinctual, stuck in his blood and never getting free, and Sam quickly recovers as the situation hits.

Not the strongest or the heaviest of the team, Spike is nevertheless capable of everything that the rest of them are. It's easy to forget that when he spends so much time in the truck or working with his many technological toys. Sam has always had as much respect for him as he had for the other members of the team but in this moment, it grows. He looks at Spike and he looks back and in their connection, they share so much. Gratitude and appreciation are in Sam's, while a shared relief is reflected back from Spike's, and nothing is registered except this brief experience of feeling so very alive.

But the moment breaks as the bubble of silence around them is shattered by a familiar sound of metal groaning. Spike's eyes flash panic and Sam knows his own is now showing the same as the structure creaks, their combined weight too much for the unstable scaffolding. Sam feels a flash of déjà vu and knows that there's going to be a repeat performance if this keeps up; only this time, it'll be two bodies falling instead of one.

It is enough for him to come back to himself and through the com in his ear he can finally hear the rest of his team shouting a mix of his and Spike's names, commands not to move, and reassurances that help was coming. He knows Spike can hear it all as well, but as another minute tremor reverberates through his hands as Spike's body shudders in response to the structure, Sam knows help will be too late. His team had been scattered around the building and are now several floors above them, and considering his and Spike's predicament, will have to be extremely careful as they move to reach them. There is not enough time and too much distance to cross, and damned if Sam will allow anymore of them to be at risk.

He sets his jaw and looks up at the man who'd saved him and says two words.

"Let go."

It takes a moment for the words to register but he can see when they do. Spike's eyes widen and his mouth opens wordlessly, and he stares at the blond sniper like he's never seen him before. Sam can sympathize with the confusion and disbelief present on the other man's face, knowing how off-the-wall his request sounded. But Sam knows what he's doing, knows why he'd said it, and he will not be swayed from this course.

"Spike," He waits for the brown orbs to lock directly onto his own blue before speaking again, "let go."

"What? No."

In his ear, he is aware of Ed speaking, his voice a combination of stress and anger as he yells at Sam, and the blonde feels a smile dart across his face because only his team leader could pull that particular mix of emotions off.

"Sam, shut your mouth and just focus on holding on. We're coming for you guys, alright?"

He hears tactical boots slamming on metal above them but can't move his head enough to look without causing them both to move. But then the boots appear at the end of the scaffolding and Sam feels a wave of icy fear wash over him as the structure sways in response to even more weight. As another shake wracks them both, Spike and Sam both turn their heads slightly to spear the owner with warning looks.

Another step, and this time the force of the tremor causes him to sway, slamming him into the metal beams again and ripping another grunt of pain from his throat. He closes his eyes, breathing hard, and feels like a marionette dangling from half-broken strings, at the mercy of whoever comes along to play with them. A hard squeeze of his hand accompanied by a loud "Sam!" in his ear jerks his eyes open, and he looks back up to see concern in Spike's eyes.

"You good, Sam?"

The absurdity of the question almost makes him laugh but he catches himself, instead giving a soft "yeah" in response. Spike studies him for a moment before speaking, directing his words at the rest of the team.

"How's about we not do that again? You gotta find another way; it's not stable enough to support us for much longer, let alone anyone else."

"Copy that, Spike. Just keep holding on."

"No worries, boss…"

But Sam tunes him out as he gazes critically up at him, seeing the beginnings of strain in his teammate's body; lines around his eyes have deepened and small muscle spasms are becoming visible. A wave of dizziness passes over him, and Sam knows that despite their words, neither of them will be able to hold on for much longer. They would give, or the whole structure would collapse; the likelihood of them both falling was looking greater and greater, and so were the chances of serious injury.

Sam makes his decision, and it is a familiar one, because years in a war zone have taught him all about sacrifice.

"Let go."

"No, no way."

"Spike, it's not going to hold both of us; if it breaks, we'll both fall. So let go."

"Sam, no."

Sam exhales sharply, feeling frustration clawing at his insides. Urgency wells inside him as the structure shudders again, releasing a sound like the moaning of the ocean deep, and he tries again.

"Listen to me, Spike. You have to let go of me. You don't have another choice."

But the brunette is already shaking his head, desperation and denial in the stress of his voice and every inch of his body.

"No, Sam. Just-no. It's not an option. No."

He gentled his voice, soothing and calming in comparison to Spike's agitated one, and caught his eyes, staring into the brown orbs as he spoke.

"It's okay, Spike. Just let me go. I'll be alright."

"Shut up, Sam. I am not letting go of you."

He looked up at the other man, at the determination etched into every line of his face, and saw the truth to what he was saying. Spike was never going to let go of him, even if it brought both of them down-it went against everything in his nature. Letting go of a teammate to save himself, even at the others' request, was an impossibility; an absurdity to think, let alone do. But it wasn't about that. It wasn't about Spike, it was about Sam. It was about sacrifice, about understanding that sometimes you have to give in order to keep. It was about how far Sam was willing to go to keep someone else safe- even at a cost to himself.

Spike didn't know what it was like to sacrifice one person to save a bunch of others, to have to walk away from the body of someone you knew even if they were still breathing because you didn't have the time, you didn't have the way, to save them from the dangers of a landmine buried in the sand. Spike didn't know what it was like to be a survivor, to be the one left alive and behind and broken, and to have to carry on despite every fiber in your being screaming for peace. And Spike didn't know what it was like to sit on a single bed in a solitary hotel room with nothing but your gun to keep you company, to wake in the middle of the night with the voices of the dead howling in your ears and whispering from the darkest shadows in the corner.

But Sam did.

And because he knows, because he's seen, because he's been there and done that and sworn never to do it again, Sam has only one way he will allow this to end.

He doesn't know what it is that shows on his face, but Spike catches sight of something he doesn't like judging by the hard squeeze he gives to the blonde's wrist.

"Hey!"

Sam jerks open eyes he hadn't even realized had closed and looks up at the man above him. A fiercely desperate look is etched across Spike's face, a look that makes the breath in his throat catch, and he feels himself caught in the gaze of the other.

"Don't give up on us, Sam. You hear me? Don't you dare give up."

There's no power in the world that could make him turn away from his teammate, from the determination he hears in the other man's voice. It is a demand and a command and a promise, from one brother-in-arms to another, that his faith will not be misplaced. It will not be broken nor taken away, and all he has to do is believe in it.

Because that's all that Spike wants from him, all that he's asking: for Sam to trust in his team, to trust that they will bring him home safe. But trust goes both ways. If Spike wants Sam's trust, then he has to give it in return. He has to trust that Sam knows what he is doing.

For a moment they are frozen in a tableau of tragedy, figures caught in a spun web of catch and release, rise and fall. There's a pause, a breath, a stillness that gapes between them, and as they stare at each other, everything stops.

Some decisions can make or break people. And some choices…some choices aren't choices at all. They're instinctual, the driving force behind actions, behind words, and more often than not, unexplainable.

Because the decisions of our lives are what shape us. The choices we make are what come to define us. They tell us who we are, what we believe in, and set the pattern of our lives out in front of us like a cobbled pathway. They lead us down a narrow road, a road not-less traveled, that ends in a crossroads only for us to start the cycle all over again.

And the thing about choices, the hardest part, is learning how to live with them. More often than not, it's about other people having to learn to live with them, too.

Because we have to live tomorrow with the choices that we make today.

But Sam knows all about choices. And as he hangs there, held up from the ground only by the hands of another (his friend, his teammate, his family), feeling metal shake around them and the waning strength of a body being forced to its' limits, he chooses.

"Sam, please. Don't do this."

His partner's voice has shifted into something painful, something so viscerally deep and gut-wrenchingly torn, aching and hollow and shredded under the burden of a knowledge so great and so fierce that the human mind cannot withstand it, that it takes everything Sam has not to give in. It is only the realization of what would happen that helps him cling to the road he has chosen.

"We will find another way. Please."

It is an epiphany for Sam, the youth and innocence still so deeply engrained in his teammate, and for a moment, it shakes him. It makes him wonder how Spike could still be so young after everything he's seen, and it forces him to grieve for himself, because Sam hasn't been innocent in a very long time.

And then the world starts again, back on its proper axis, and as the structure shakes again and Spike's eyes tighten around the edges in response, Sam knows what he has to do.

Because Spike will never let go, Sam does it for him.

He reaches up with his free hand and tugs at the Velcro of his glove, feeling the leather grow slack around his wrist. One more tug and he knew it would come free entirely; causing him to plummet to whatever was awaiting him below, concrete or debris. He doesn't know whether he will survive the fall or not, but what he does know is that he cannot allow them both to take the plunge. He looks up one last time at his teammate, and gives a small smile, hoping the other will see the appreciation in his eyes for trying to save him.

"It's going to be okay, Spike."

He sees the resignation, and the dawning horror of what's to come, in Spike's eyes as Sam reaches up one last time to touch his glove, pulling hard.

"Sam, don't-,"

He slipped free, his glove dangling from Spike's hands, and felt himself falling for the second time in the span of minutes, the air whistling in his ears and mingling with the strangled scream from above.

"SAM!"

His descent is abruptly ended as he lands, his back hitting something below him hard enough for him to feel it through his entire body. His head is next, slamming into cold metal hard enough for starbursts to spark across his eyes. The world shakes around him and dust floats down, followed by tumbling metal and wood.

Sam blinked once, twice, three times, before the black at the edge of his vision flooded him, sinking him into a blanketing darkness.

/

He comes back to awareness slowly, his hearing returning in scattered patches of sound, going in and out like faded speakers. There's a humming behind it all, a sort of constant drone underneath the whispers and vibrations filtering in. Touch is the sensation registered next, and it slams into him under an all-encompassing tidal wave of agony that makes his breath catch in his chest before escaping from his throat in a guttural rush of pain.

His breathing is now the one sound he hears, harshly ragged in his hears like he's been running a marathon and loud enough to drown out even the persistent hum. A few moments pass, an eternity of seconds, and he begins to feel his head clear and his breathing lessen in its' intensity as the pain subsides. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking at the return of light, and he turns his head slightly, glancing around briefly as he attempts to place his surroundings. It's difficult, however, when he can't even place what happened.

He lifts his head but the resulting head rush causes him to close his eyes and let it sink back to the ground beneath him, his breathing hard again. He swallows at the wave of nausea, teeth clenched and eyes watering, and an infinite amount of time passes before it dissipates.

His ears are ringing now, coherent sound still escaping him, but Sam ignores it as awareness slowly returns. Another deep breath leaves his lungs aching under the effort and his memory returns in a storm of images.

Falling. Spike. Swinging, dangling. Falling again. Hitting the ground. Black.

His eyes snap open, darting around in their sockets as the sound of debris crashing down on him slowly fades away. He shifts, trying to turn onto his side, but fire erupts as every nerve ending in his body screams. His back tries to arch away from the pain but something prevents the movement, and a cry not unlike a wounded animal is ripped from him.

This time, the darkness crashes over him amidst a forceful rush of agony.

/

The sound of voices both in his head and outside of it roused him from unconsciousness, causing him to swim out of the comforting black.

"…on, Sam, talk to me."

Ed's voice resonates through his ears but Sam isn't anywhere near coherent enough to speak.

"Braddock, I swear if you're dead I'm going to kill you myself!" _Spike, in no way did that make sense_ , is the fleeting thought before pain hits him again, all the noise hitting him at once and making his head throb. Or was his head already throbbing?

A distant part of him registers that he probably has a concussion.

Debris shifts, dust flying into the air, and Sam opens his eyes as someone drops to their knees next to his side. He blinks as a face swims into view, the worried countenance familiar but difficult to place in his current condition. Their mouth moves and Sam squints as he attempts to decipher the words.

"Sam, are you with me? Can you hear me? Sam?"

He swallows, attempting to move from off of his back, but it hurts, and his breath catches as the image of a pinned butterfly flashes in his mind.

Hands hold him down firmly, restricting his movements and preventing him from getting up. Words filter through the ringing in his ears but he can't seem to reply, too stuck on the panic racing through him.

"Sam? Sam, if you can hear me, do not move. Alright? _Don't move_."

His breath leaving him in a rush, he stops struggling as his strength wanes; his eyes close of their own accord and he drifts as everything moves around him.

"-the paramedics?"

"-here, Spike. How's he doing? Is he-,"

"White male, late 20s. Head injury…bleeding…severe bruising to the-,"

"-like a metal rebar…minor impalement to the lower right quadrant…need to get a move on-,"

"Sam, just relax…can you do that for me, buddy…that's it, easy does it-,"

/

He swims in and out of consciousness, never longer than a few minutes each time, fading into the black with a sense of comfort and safety surrounding him.

/

Sam opens his eyes to white, white walls and ceiling and sheets, and swallows the groan at the realization he is in the hospital. He wets his lips, glancing around and taking in his surroundings, and is not surprised when he spies the rest of his team scattered throughout the room. Jules and Wordy are to his left, Ed and Greg to his right, while Lou is leaning against the wall at the end of his bed. It is Spike's position, however, that catches his attention the most and he finds himself awakening fully, pushing through the lightly medicated haze.

Spike is standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, with the most serious expression the blond has ever seen on the tech's face, and he swallows hard against the foreboding that flashes through him.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Sam nearly recoils at the venom in the other man's voice, looking around at the others to see if they would intervene. Expectant faces are the only things that look back and he realizes that, despite the harshness of the question, his team was waiting for him to reply. Words are escaping him at the moment, though, and Spike continues speaking.

"What was your plan, exactly? Huh, Sam? What was it? You just drop 30 feet to the unprotected ground and what, walk away unharmed?"

The blond is silent, struck dumb by the anger apparent in every line, every inch of the other man's body, and at the fact that it is Spike of all people yelling at him.

"Look around you, Sam. Look at where you are. This," Spike gestured to the surrounding room and jerked his head from side to side, "this is not okay. _You_ are not okay."

He paused, staring at Sam as if waiting for a response but Sam couldn't even begin to speak.

"You let go of me, Sam. You _let go_. You just reached up and-and-you were gone. I felt you slip right out my hands and watched you hit the ground and-," Spike cut himself off, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his hair. Lou stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, and Sam could only watch as the Italian hunched over, his hands gripping the end of the bed like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"You let go, Sam. _You fucking let go_." There are tears in the other man's voice, and desperation, and Sam is reminded of that moment in the air when Spike had pleaded with him, begged him not to let go; to hold on just a little while longer. It makes his breath catch in his chest, pain tighten his throat, all of which only double when the brunette raised his head back up, eyes shiny with tears.

"I was going to carry it, Sam. For the rest of my life. You were going to _make me_ carry it. And it's not fair. Damn it, Braddock, it's not fair, and you…you of all people, should understand why you don't do that to someone. You don't make them have to live with the guilt. You don't make them have to live with the should-haves and the could-haves and the endless ways it might have gone."

In the face of Spike's pain, Sam is having difficulty gaining the surety he had held when hanging in the air, but he tries, attempting to explain what he'd done.

"That whole building was going to come down on us, Spike. Where we were…it couldn't support both of us. Not for long. Not for the amount of time it would've taken for you guys to come up with some kind of plan. So I made a decision. I made a decision that kept at least one of us alive because I couldn't let you die. I couldn't let you die because you tried to save me. That was my choice to make, Spike."

It was the wrong to say and he could only watch as Spike nearly exploded with rage.

"You. Are. Not. Expendable. I don't know what I have to do to drill that through your thick skull, but I swear I will. It is not okay for you to die. It is not okay for you to kill yourself."

"I was just-,"

"Just what? Trying to be the hero? The martyr? What? Because I can tell you what you WEREN'T doing: trying to stay alive."

"I-," he attempts to speak but Spike didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.

"There are enough people out there gunning for us, Sam. We don't need you trying to take yourself out."

"I wasn't trying to kill myself!" The sniper roars back, the effort making all his injuries rear to life in a dash of pain, but Sam barely feels it under the panic that lances through him.

"You could have fooled me! You throw yourself into danger at every turn like you have a death wish or something! Throwing yourself on grenades, falling through the air; what's next, a gun to the head?!"

And Sam couldn't hold back the flinch at the words as guilt and shame ran through him, the comment hitting too close to home. He drops his gaze to the blankets, trying to push through the feelings even as he struggled to find words. Because it wasn't true, not anymore, but the memories Spike's words evoked were hard to break through. The only sound in the room for a long time was Spike's harsh breathing and then the moment was broken.

"You've tried it before, haven't you. To kill yourself."

It was Lou who spoke, quiet, observant Lou, and Sam raised his eyes up to meet the brown ones of the other man. There was compassion there, and knowledge, and Sam can only nod in response to the statements made by his teammate.

"When was it, Sam?'

The blond answered automatically, his entire world narrowed down to just him and Lou, and the secrets he is spilling into the silence.

"After…after Matt."

"What stopped you?"

"A friend. He found me and stopped me from pulling the trigger. He stayed with me that night and every night after. He kept a close eye on me for a while, helped me keep it together, and then…" Sam trailed off, his eyes distant.

"Then what?"

"I came here." He stated simply.

"What?"

The spellbound silence was broken by the whispered word, and Sam caught sight of the looks on the others' faces. It was Spike who had spoken, however, the single word fraught with the horror stamped across his face, and Sam hurries to speak, trying to break through to the other man.

"Spike, listen to me. It was a long time ago, alright, and-,"

"Not that long ago." There is a childlike tone to his voice and Sam winces in guilt.

"But it was a different time. And I'm a different person now. Ok? I'm not going to kill myself. I just…I just don't think I can survive losing someone else, Spike. Not again. That's why I let go."

Spike nods, his face shifting back to something closer to normal as he accepts the truth that resonates in Sam's words.

They lapse into silence, the quiet helping to soothe the headache that had begun pounding through his head during the confrontation, and he struggles to stay awake. Greg is the first to notice and he stands up, the others moving automatically. Sam locks eyes with him as the other man speaks.

"It's been a long day, for all of us. I'm not saying I like what you did, Sam, but I do understand. Ok? So get some rest and we'll discuss it later." He pauses before leaning forward a bit. " _All_ of this."

The injured sniper swallows hard but resolutely keeps eye contact.

The others follow, each saying a quiet goodbye to the blond. Spike is the last one out, and he turns for one final word.

"Oh, and Sam? We have got to work on your repelling. You've got the going down part right; it's the landing that sucks."

Though the words are joking, the intent behind them is anything but, and the blond sniper can only nod at the resolve in the others' eyes.

The first time he tries to repel after the incident, he has a panic attack. It is Spike and Lou who get him safely to the ground, talking him through his breathing even as his heart tries to climb out of his chest. They end up having to hook his line to Lou, lowering them down together while Spike keeps up a running litany of soothing words. The minute his feet hit the ground his knees buckle, and it's only the strength of the two men that keep him upright. He drops down to the ground the moment he has been released from the repelling line, head in his hands and breathing hard. Slowly, the attack dissipates, leaving him lightheaded and shaky.

There are hands on his back, on his shoulders and arms, and as coherency returns, he realizes that they belong to his team. They are standing around him protectively, watching intently and pulling him through his panic calmly and efficiently. Once his breathing returns to something close to normal, he slowly lifts his head to face them. It is Ed on whom his eyes first land and he smiles reflexively back, albeit a shaky one, in response to the older man's.

When he feels ready, Sam stands with their help and the day resumes its' normal rotation. But he doesn't forget that moment, the one where he was at his weakest and his team protected him, helped him without asking anything in return, content with simply making sure he was safe and okay; the moment where they helped him as if it was as natural as breathing.

And realization hits him like a bolt of lightning: this is what trust was like. His team trusted him already; trusted him with their backs and trusted in his decisions. They were simply waiting on him to do the same.

He thinks he might be ready for that.

The next time he tries to repel, he waits for his breath to hitch and the panic to return. When it doesn't, he meets the knowing gaze of his team leader and returns the slight nod Ed gives him, before turning to Spike.

"Race you to the bottom."

He pushes off without waiting for a response and laughs at the sound of Spike sputtering in outrage.

Sometimes life wasn't about making choices. It was about learning how to deal with the consequences.

/

> "If you want to get out alive,
> 
> Hold on for your life."
> 
> -Get Out Alive by Three Days Grace

/

 

 


End file.
